Fifty Shades Freed (Christian & Ana)(59)

The woman is still singing. Christian always puts songs on repeat in here. Strange.

I am curled in his arms on his lap our legs tangled together, with my head resting against his chest. We're on the floor of the playroom by the table.

"Welcome back," he says, peeling the blindfold off me. I blink as my eyes adjust to the muted light. Tipping my chin back, he plants a soft kiss on my lips, his eyes focused on and anxiously searching mine. I reach up to caress his face.

He smiles.

"Well, did I fulfill the brief?" he asks, amused.

I frown. "Brief?"

"You wanted rough," he says gently.

I grin, because I just can't help it. "Yes. I think you did . . ."

He raises his eyebrows and grins back at me. "I'm very glad to hear it Mrs.

Grey. You look thoroughly well f*cked and beautiful at this moment." He caresses my face, his long fingers stroking my cheek.

"I feel it," I purr.

He reaches down and kisses me tenderly, his lips soft and warm and giving against mine. "You never disappoint." He leans back to gaze down at me. "How do you feel?" His voice is soft with concern.

"Good," I murmur, feeling a flush creep across my face. "Thoroughly well f*cked." I smile shyly.

"Why, Mrs. Grey, you have a dirty, dirty mouth." Christian feigns an offended expression, but I can hear his amusement.

"That's because I'm married to a dirty, dirty boy, Mr. Grey."

He grins a ridiculously stupid grin and it's infectious. "I'm glad you're married to him." He gently takes hold of my braid, lifts it to his lips, and kisses the end with reverence, his eyes glowing with love. Oh my . . . did I ever have a chance of resisting this man?

I reach for his left hand and plant a kiss on his wedding ring, a plain platinum band matching my own. "Mine," I whisper.

"Yours," he responds. He curls his arms around me and presses his nose into my hair. "Shall I run you a bath?"

"Hmm. Only if you join me in it."

"Okay," he says. He sets me onto my feet and stands up beside me. He's still wearing his jeans.

"Will you wear your . . . er . . . other jeans?"

He frowns down at me. "Other jeans?"

"The ones you used to wear in here."

"Those jeans?" he murmurs blinking with perplexed surprise.

"You look very hot in them."

"Do I?"

"Yeah . . . I mean, really hot."

He smiles, shyly. "Well for you, Mrs. Grey, maybe I will." He bends to kiss me then grabs the small bowl on the table that contains the butt plug, the tube of lubricant, the blindfold, and my panties.

"Who cleans these toys?" I ask as I follow him over to the chest.

He frowns at me, as if not understanding the question. "Me. Mrs. Jones."

"What?"

He nods, amused and embarrassed, I think. He switches off the music.

"Well—um . . ."

"Your subs used to do it?" I finish his sentence. He gives me an apologetic shrug.

"Here." He hands me his shirt and I put it on, wrapping it around myself. His scent still clings to the linen, and my chagrin about butt plug washing is forgotten.

He leaves the items on the chest. Taking my hand, he unlocks the playroom door then leads me out and downstairs. I follow him meekly.

The anxiety, the bad mood, the thrill, fear, and excitement of the car chase have all gone. I'm relaxed—finally sated and calm. As we enter our bathroom, I yawn loudly and stretch . . . at ease with myself for a change.